Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III) by Samuel Johnson (audio ebook reader txt) 📕

  To Try New _Shrouds_ One Mounts Into The Wind,

  And One Below, Their Ease Or Stiffness Notes.

I Suppose There Is Not One Term Which Every Reader Does Not Wish

Away[121].

His Digression To The Original And Progress Of Navigation, With His

Prospect Of The Advancement Which It Shall Receive From The Royal

Society, Then Newly Instituted, May Be Considered as An Example Seldom

Equalled of Seasonable Excursion And Artful Return.

One Line, However, Leaves Me Discontented; He Says, That, By The Help Of

The Philosophers,

  Instructed ships Shall Sail To Quick Commerce,

  By Which Remotest Regions Are Allied.

Which He Is Constrained to Explain In a Note "By A More Exact Measure Of

Longitude." It Had Better Become Dryden'S Learning and Genius To Have

Laboured science Into Poetry, And Have Shown, By Explaining longitude,

That Verse Did Not Refuse The Ideas Of Philosophy.

His Description Of The Fire Is Painted by Resolute Meditation, Out Of A

Mind Better Formed to Reason Than To Feel. The Conflagration Of A City,

With All Its Tumults Of Concomitant Distress, Is One Of The Most Dreadful

Spectacles Which This World Can Offer To Human Eyes; Yet It Seems To

Raise Little Emotion In the Breast Of The Poet; He Watches The Flame

Coolly From Street To Street, With Now A Reflection, And Now A Simile,

Till At Last He Meets The King, For Whom He Makes A Speech, Rather

Tedious In a Time So Busy; And Then Follows Again The Progress Of The

Fire.

There Are, However, In this Part Some Passages That Deserve Attention; As

In The Beginning:

  The Diligence Of Trades And Noiseful Gain,

  And Luxury, More Late, Asleep Were Laid;

  All Was The Night'S, And In her Silent Reign

  No Sound The Rest Of Nature Did Invade

  In this Deep Quiet----

The Expression, "All Was The Night'S," Is Taken From Seneca, Who Remarks

On Virgil'S Line,

  Omnia Noctis Erant, Placida Composta Quiete,

That He Might Have Concluded better,

  Omnia Noctis Erant.

The Following quatrain Is Vigorous And Animated:

  The Ghosts Of Traitors From The Bridge Descend,

  With Hold Fanatick Spectres To Rejoice;

  About The Fire Into A Dance They Bend,

  And Sing their Sabbath Notes With Feeble Voice.

His Prediction Of The Improvements Which Shall Be Made In the New City Is

Elegant And Poetical, And, With An Event Which Poets Cannot Always Boast,

Has Been Happily Verified. The Poem Concludes With A Simile That Might

Have Better Been Omitted.

Dryden, When He Wrote This Poem, Seems Not Yet Fully To Have Formed his

Versification, Or Settled his System Of Propriety.

From This Time He Addicted himself Almost Wholly To The Stage, "To

Which," Says He, "My Genius Never Much Inclined me," Merely As The Most

Profitable Market For Poetry. By Writing tragedies In rhyme, He Continued

To Improve His Diction And His Numbers. According to The Opinion Of

Harte, Who Had Studied his Works With Great Attention, He Settled his

Principles Of Versification In 1676, When He Produced the Play Of Aureng

Zebe; And, According to His Own Account Of The Short Time In which He

Wrote Tyrannick Love, And The State Of Innocence, He Soon Obtained the

Full Effect Of Diligence, And Added facility To Exactness.

Rhyme Has Been So Long Banished from The Theatre, That We Know Not Its

Effect Upon The Passions Of An Audience; But It Has This Convenience,

That Sentences Stand More Independent On Each Other, And Striking

Passages Are, Therefore, Easily Selected and Retained. Thus The

Description Of Night In the Indian Emperor, And The Rise And Fall Of

Empire In the Conquest Of Granada, Are More Frequently Repeated than Any

Lines In all For Love, Or Don Sebastian.

To Search His Plays For Vigorous Sallies And Sententious Elegancies, Or

To Fix The Dates Of Any Little Pieces Which He Wrote By Chance, Or By

Solicitation, Were Labour Too Tedious And Minute.

His Dramatick Labours Did Not So Wholly Absorb His Thoughts, But That He

Promulgated the Laws Of Translation In a Preface To The English Epistles

Of Ovid; One Of Which He Translated himself, And Another In conjunction

With The Earl Of Mulgrave.

Absalom And Achitophel Is A Work So Well Known, That Particular

Criticism Is Superfluous. If It Be Considered as A Poem Political And

Controversial, It Will Be Found To Comprise All The Excellencies Of Which

The Subject Is Susceptible; Acrimony Of Censure, Elegance Of Praise,

Artful Delineation Of Characters, Variety And Vigour Of Sentiment, Happy

Turns Of Language, And Pleasing harmony Of Numbers; And All These

Raised to Such A Height As Can Scarcely Be Found In any Other English

Composition.

It Is Not, However, Without Faults; Some Lines Are Inelegant Or Improper,

And Too Many Are Irreligiously Licentious. The Original Structure Of The

Poem Was Defective; Allegories Drawn To Great Length Will Always Break;

Charles Could Not Run Continually Parallel With David.

The Subject Had Likewise Another Inconvenience; It Admitted little

Imagery Or Description; And A Long Poem Of Mere Sentiments Easily Becomes

Tedious; Though All The Parts Are Forcible, And Every Line Kindles New

Rapture, The Reader, If Not Relieved by The Interposition Of Something

That Sooths The Fancy, Grows Weary Of Admiration, And Defers The Rest.

As An Approach To Historical Truth Was Necessary, The Action And

Catastrophe Were Not In the Poet'S Power; There Is, Therefore, An

Unpleasing disproportion Between The Beginning and The End. We Are

Alarmed by A Faction Formed out Of Many Sects Various In their

Principles, But Agreeing in their Purpose Of Mischief, Formidable For

Their Numbers, And Strong By Their Supports, While The King'S Friends Are

Few And Weak. The Chiefs On Either Part Are Set Forth To View; But When

Expectation Is At The Height, The King makes A Speech, And

  Henceforth A Series Of New Times Began.

Who Can Forbear To Think Of An Enchanted castle, With A Wide Moat And

Lofty Battlements, Walls Of Marble And Gates Of Brass, Which Vanishes At

Once Into Air, When The Destined knight Blows His Horn Before It?

In The Second Part, Written By Tate, There Is A Long Insertion, Which,

For Poignancy Of Satire, Exceeds Any Part Of The Former. Personal

Resentment, Though No Laudable Motive To Satire, Can Add Great Force To

General Principles. Self-Love Is A Busy Prompter.

The Medal, Written Upon The Same Principles With Absalom And Achitophel,

But Upon A Narrower Plan, Gives Less Pleasure, Though It Discovers Equal

Abilities In the Writer. The Superstructure Cannot Extend Beyond The

Foundation; A Single Character Or Incident Cannot Furnish As Many Ideas,

As A Series Of Events, Or Multiplicity Of Agents. This Poem, Therefore,

Since Time Has Left It To Itself, Is Not Much Read, Nor, Perhaps,

Generally Understood; Yet It Abounds With Touches Both Of Humorous And

Serious Satire. The Picture Of A Man Whose Propensions To Mischief Are

Such, That His Best Actions Are But Inability Of Wickedness, Is Very

Skilfully Delineated and Strongly Coloured:

  Power Was His Aim; But, Thrown From That Pretence,

  The Wretch Turn'D Loyal In his Own Defence,

  And Malice Reconcil'D Him To His Prince.

  Him, In the Anguish Of His Soul, He Serv'D;

  Rewarded faster Still Than He Deserv'D:

  Behold Him Now Exalted into Trust;

  His Counsels Oft Convenient, Seldom Just.

  Ev'N In the Most Sincere Advice He Gave,

  He Had A Grudging still To Be A Knave.

  The Frauds He Learnt In his Fanatick Years,

  Made Him Uneasy In his Lawful Gears:

  At Least As Little Honest As He Could;

  And, Like White Witches, Mischievously Good.

  To This First Bias, Longingly He Leans;

  And Rather Would Be Great By Wicked means.

The Threnodia, Which, By A Term I Am Afraid Neither Authorized nor

Analogical, He Calls Augustalis, Is Not Among His Happiest Productions.

Its First And Obvious Defect Is The Irregularity Of Its Metre, To Which

The Ears Of That Age, However, Were Accustomed. What Is Worse, It Has

Neither Tenderness Nor Dignity; It Is Neither Magnificent Nor Pathetick.

He Seems To Look Round Him For Images Which He Cannot Find, And What

He Has He Distorts By Endeavouring to Enlarge Them. "He Is," He Says,

"Petrified with Grief;" But The Marble Sometimes Relents, And Trickles In

A Joke:

  The Sons Of Art All Med'Cines Try'D,

  And Ev'Ry Noble Remedy Apply'D:

  With Emulation Each Essay'D

  His Utmost Skill; _Nay, More, They Prayd;_

  Was Never Losing game With Better Conduct Play'D.

He Had Been A Little Inclined to Merriment Before Upon The Prayers Of

A Nation For Their Dying sovereign; Nor Was He Serious Enough To Keep

Heathen Fables Out Of His Religion:

  With Him Th' Innumerable Crowd Of Armed prayers

  Knock'D At The Gates Of Heav'N, And Knock'D Aloud;

  _The First Well-Meaning rude Petitioners_

  All For His Life Assail'D The Throne;

  All Would Have Brib'D The Skies By Off'Ring up Their Own.

  So Great A Throng Not Heav'N Itself Could Bar;

  'Twas Almost Borne By Force, _As In the Giants' War._

  The Pray'Rs, At Least, For His Reprieve Were Heard:

  His Death, Like Hezekiah'S, Was Deferr'D.

There Is, Throughout The Composition, A Desire Of Splendour Without

Wealth. In the Conclusion He Seems Too Much Pleased with The Prospect Of

The New Reign To Have Lamented his Old Master With Much Sincerity.

He Did Not Miscarry In this Attempt For Want Of Skill Either In lyrick Or

Elegiack Poetry. His Poem On The Death Of Mrs. Killigrew Is, Undoubtedly,

The Noblest Ode That Our Language Ever Has Produced. The First Part Flows

With A Torrent Of Enthusiasm: "Fervet Immensusque Ruit." All The Stanzas,

Indeed, Are Not Equal. An Imperial Crown Cannot Be One Continued diamond;

The Gems Must Be Held Together By Some Less Valuable Matter.

In His First Ode For Cecilia'S Day, Which Is Lost In the Splendour Of The

Second, There Are Passages Which Would Have Dignified any Other Poet. The

First Stanza Is Vigorous And Elegant, Though The Word _Diapason_ Is Too

Technical, And The Rhymes Are Too Remote From One Another:

  From Harmony, From Heavenly Harmony,

  This Universal Frame Began:

  When Nature Underneath A Heap Of Jarring atoms Lay,

  And Could Not Heave Her Head,

  The Tuneful Voice Was Heard From High.

  Arise, Ye More Than Dead.

  Then Cold And Hot, And Moist And Dry,

  In order To Their Stations Leap,

  And Musick'S Power Obey.

  From Harmony, From Heavenly Harmony,

  This Universal Frame Began;

  From Harmony To Harmony

  Through All The Compass Of The Notes It Ran,

  The Diapason Closing full In man.

The Conclusion Is Likewise Striking; But It Includes An Image So Awful In

Itself, That It Can Owe Little To Poetry; And I Could Wish The Antithesis

Of _Musick Untuning_ Had Found Some Other Place:

  As From The Power Of Sacred lays

  The Spheres Began To Move.

  And Sung The Great Creator'S Praise

  To All The Bless'D Above:

  So, When The Last And Dreadful Hour

  This Crumbling pageant Shall Devour,

  The Trumpet Shall Be Heard On High,

  The Dead Shall Live, The Living die,

  And Musick Shall Untune The Sky.

Of His Skill In elegy He Has Given A Specimen In his Eleonora, Of Which

The Following lines Discover Their Author:

  Though All These Rare Endowments Of The Mind

  Were In a Narrow Space Of Life Confin'D,

  The Figure Was With Full Perfection Crown'D;

  Though Not So Large An Orb, As Truly Round:

  As When In glory, Through The Publick Place,

  The Spoils Of Conquer'D Nations Were To Pass,

  And But One Day For Triumph Was Allow'D,

  The Consul Was Constrain'D His Pomp To Crowd;

  And So The Swift Procession Hurry'D On,

  That All, Tho' Not Distinctly, Might Be Shown;

  So, In the Straiten'D Bounds Of Life Confin'D,

  She Gave But Glimpses Of Her Glorious Mind:

  And Multitudes Of Virtues Pass'D Along;

  Each Pressing foremost In the Mighty Throng,

  Ambitious To Be Seen, And Then Make Room

  For Greater Multitudes That Were To Come.

  Yet Unemployed no Minute Slipp'D Away;

  Moments Were Precious In so Short A Stay.

  The Haste Of Heaven To Have Her Was So Great,

  That Some Were Single Acts, Though Each Complete;

  And Ev'Ry Act Stood Ready To Repeat.

This Piece, However, Is Not Without Its Faults; There Is So Much Likeness

In The Initial Comparison, That There Is No Illustration. As A King would

Be Lamented, Eleonora Was Lamented:

  As, When Some Great And Gracious Monarch Dies,

  Soft Whispers, First, And Mournful Murmurs Rise

  Among The Sad Attendants; Then The Sound

  Soon Gathers Voice, And Spreads The News Around,

  Through Town And Country, Till The Dreadful Blast

  Is Blown To Distant Colonies At Last;

  Who Then, Perhaps, Were Off'Ring vows In vain,

  For His Long Life, And For His Happy Reign:

  So Slowly, By Degrees, Unwilling fame

  Did Matchless Eleonora'S Fate Proclaim,

  Till Publick As